


Ashes In My Wake

by Spectrospecs



Category: Baccano!
Genre: 2002, Gen, Novel Spoilers, Rated teen for occasional language just in case, this child is terrible and i feel a strong responsibility to show him the error of his ways
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-06 23:52:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10347453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spectrospecs/pseuds/Spectrospecs
Summary: Bobby Splot, constantly eclipsed by a reputation from decades past, turns to an estranged relative as a last resort to prove himself.





	1. Bobby Splot Discovers How Much He Hates Nursing Homes

**2002**  
Late August  
New York City 

 

Bobby didn’t like it here.

The beige-and-gray hallways carried the faint smell of floral air freshener, undercut by a sharp note of antiseptic. The aide who led him at a brisk walk had the same aura. Sweet in a fake way, but under the surface she was strictly clinical. 

Every picture hanging on the walls was a dull oil painting of nothing in particular. Their frames, all plastic and wood pretending to be brass, were tarnished. Even the fake flowers collecting dust in ceramic vases seemed to be turning brown. This was a place that would drain the life out of you.

The pair passed a wide sitting room. Through doorways and windows, Bobby could see about a dozen old people scattered around. Some were in wheelchairs. Most were accompanied by a cane or walker. He even spotted one hooked up to an IV rig. A normal enough scene, entirely to be expected. But something about it still twinged at his gut. 

The entire room was perfectly silent and still. No conversations filled the air. Nobody glanced away from their books or crosswords. A few of them were just staring into space. 

He suppressed a shudder of disgust. They looked like they were already dead.

He wanted to shout, or sprint down the hallway, or send one of those vases crashing to the floor. He wanted to break the silence that threatened to swallow him up. 

Most of all, he wanted to leave.

He should be out with his gang right now. School loomed on the horizon, so their odd jobs for the Martillo Family were dwindling back to cover weekend work and the occasional afternoon errand. Less jobs meant more free time in the last few days of summer break, and for Bobby, that meant returning to what he considered his primary job – leading his own gang.

Of course, they were keeping clear of Martillo turf, for real this time. Getting caught wouldn’t just mean losing their spoils, or even risking the marginal freedom his parents allowed him; Bobby could be kicked out of the Martillos if he caused any more trouble. Many hushed conversations concluded that it would be a lot worse than just getting fired. 

“I hear they’ll cut off your tongue, so you can never tell anyone what you’ve seen,” Tall whispered in horrified fascination. “And all your fingers too, so you can’t even write or use sign language.”

“No way,” Troy cut in, leaning against the wall of their hideout. “That seems too tame. I bet they’d make it like you never existed, and next thing you know you’re in concrete shoes at the bottom of the Hudson.”

“Maybe they’d just hand you over to that Ronny guy,” Humpty offered. The others fell silent. “We saw what he could do. And it seemed like he wasn’t even trying. He’d make short work of you.”

A solemn hush fell over the warehouse. Before long, Bobby forced a laugh.

“C’mon guys, quit it, I gotta go in to work tomorrow.”

The three boys exchanged their grim expressions for apologetic ones, mumbling as they shifted their gaze away. After a second, though, Tall spoke up again.

“Hey, you’ve done a few jobs under him by now. Is he really that scary? Like, all the time?”

Bobby scrunched his face up as he thought. “Nah, I mean… well, not at all really, but kind of? If you know what I mean?”

Blank stares answered him. Bobby backtracked.

“Okay, so it’s kind of hard to explain. But like, last week, you know how I scared off that pair of associates who were giving me shit when I came back from a job?”

“Yeah, we remember,” Humpty chuckled. “You told us each at least twice.”

“Well yeah, so I kinda left out just a bit. I was just getting ready to really give it to ‘em, show ‘em who’s boss…”

“Don’t the associates outrank you?” Troy cut in.

“Shut up. Anyway, just before I ran ‘em off, they both stop dead and look behind me. And there’s Ronny. And he’s still got that tiny little smirk that’s always on his face, and he’s still super chill, and he looks the same as he does when he’s just sitting in the restaurant all day doing nothing. But there’s just this, y’know, this _sense_. Like you just get this feeling that he could kill you and it would be about as tough as blinking.”

The bragging tone had slipped from Bobby’s voice somewhere during his narration. With a jolt, he realized that his friends – no, his _gang_ , he reminded himself – were staring at him with wide, worrying eyes. He puffed out his chest and reassembled his bravado.

“So then I guess they thought I was even scarier than Ronny, ‘cause they took one look at him and then one look at me and beat it out of there. To be honest, I’m surprised I didn’t get promoted on the spot.”

The worried looks turned to disbelieving smiles. 

“Get over yourself, man.”

“Why do we even listen to you?"

"I’d betcha five bucks that those associates were actually some grade schoolers who looked at you funny.”

“You got a problem with me? C’mon, I’ll take you all on!”

A couple of headlocks, some mild bruising, and a restored pecking order later, the four decided to call it a day. Bobby saw Humpty off at the subway station, then hurried home. He hadn’t realized it was so close to sundown already. 

His mind replayed his chance encounter with Ronny from the other day. Skipped past the jeers and taunts from those guys barely out of high school. Flashed past his heart beating in his ears, the feeling deep in his gut that if he made one wrong move in front of that smirking man, he would drop dead on the spot. And resumed normal speed with that deadly presence patting him on the shoulder, and speaking as though nothing had happened.

“You and your friends have shown yourselves to be quite dependable over the past few weeks.” The smirk grew ever-so-slightly more wry. “To be honest, it is a little surprising, given your family history. It’s good to see old grudges fade.”

There wasn’t a shred of sarcasm in his tone; he had to have been telling the truth. That only made Bobby hate it more. His brow furrowed, and he clenched his fists. It was happening again. Different faces, but the same conversation, the same reaction, over and over again. 

Before he realized what he was doing, he locked eyes with Ronny and demanded, “What’d my family ever do to you?”

The smile faded, and Ronny glanced at his watch. 

“Unfortunately, I don’t have the time for a history lesson. Well, no matter. Ask your father…” He paused, and the knowing smirk crept back onto his face. “Or, rather, ask your great-grandmother. I’m sure she’ll set you straight.”

With that, he turned on his heel and walked off. Bobby was left alone in the empty alley, staring at the pavement. 

Suddenly, concrete gave way to the front steps of his apartment building. He’d been so lost in thought on the way back from the hideout, he didn’t realize he was already home. He dug his key out of his pocket. Nobody around here was telling him what he wanted to know, so it looked like he’d have to get creative. He trudged up the stairs, already brewing a plan. He’d need a phonebook, bus fare, and a rock-solid alibi for when his parents found out. 

He paused, another thought striking him, and added one last item to the list. Probably best to grab a greeting card.

************************

Present, or two days later. 

****

The aide checked her clipboard as they rounded a corner, then pulled up short. She turned to Bobby with a smile.

“Oh, I almost forgot to ask. Did you bring a gift with you today?” 

“I, uh, yeah…”

“Is it a candle?” 

The speed at which she asked belied her honeyed tone. Bobby was nonplussed.

“No, I got this, um, card…”

Some of the tension left her smile. 

“How lovely! That’s very sweet of you.” She looked back towards her clipboard as she continued. “Just so you’re aware, your great-grandmother cannot keep candles or matches in her room, even if they were given as gifts.”

 _That’s weird_ , Bobby thought. Out loud, he asked, “Why’s that?”

She hesitated for a split second. When she answered, the words were carefully chosen. “She has a history of posing a danger to herself and others when fire is involved.”

Bobby fell silent, and hearing no more questions, the aide strode forward once more. His uneasiness swelled. For half a second, his feet stayed rooted to the floor.

_C’mon, just go. You’ll get the information you want, and then you never have to come back here again. You’ve gone up against a guy with a machine gun! What’s so eerie about a depressing old nursing home and weirdly vague nurses and some weak 90-year-old lady?_

A shake of his head, and Bobby caught up with the aide just as she stopped in front of a door. She rapped on the doorframe. A faint welcome sounded from inside, at which the nurse opened the door enough to poke her head in. 

“Your great-grandson Bobby is here to see you, Mrs. Holystone.”

“Is he now? Well, let him in.” A creaky voice said. 

The door swung open all the way, revealing a tidy, well-lit room. Off to the side, a bed was just visible, half-hidden by a curtain. A worn armchair occupied one corner, and on the opposite wall, a cabinet overlooked a small table and two chairs. 

An old woman stood up from the table. Her white hair and pastel outfit starkly contrasted with the black eyepatch she wore. The wrinkles in her skin might have managed to disguise the gnarled scars that spanned the right side of her face, had it not been for the matching scars that twisted their way down her wrists and covered both hands. 

Bobby’s examination of the room and its occupant was cut off by the sickly sweet voice of the aide.

“Alright, Mrs. Holystone, I’m going to leave now. Give me a call if you need anything, okay?”

“Yes, yes, thank you, Amanda, I’ll be sure to do that.” Great-Grandma Holystone went to close the door, then called out as an afterthought, “If there’s anyone else here to see me, just send ‘em over. They know where I am.”

With that, she shut the door, then turned towards Bobby. While she didn’t seem hostile, her expression wasn’t especially welcoming. 

“Well, this is certainly a surprise. Sit on down. I’m pretty sure I still have half a box of Girl Scout cookies left in here somewhere.” She rummaged through the cabinet, gently feeling over each package. “So, where are your parents? Still at the front desk?”

Bobby, now sitting in the armchair, answered after a pause. 

“Actually, they don’t know I’m here.”

She froze with her hand on top of the box of Thin Mints. She slowly turned to face Bobby again. One corner of her mouth was quirked up in a smile. 

“Is that so?”

He shifted in his seat, withering under her one-eyed stare. Eventually, he muttered, “Yeah, that’s right.”

Her gaze still fixed on Bobby, she tossed the cookies onto the table. The smile didn’t waver.

“Grab a couple if you like, but eat fast. I get the feeling you and I are gonna have a lot to talk about.”


	2. Unlike Most Elderly People, Nice Holystone Is Disinclined To Talk About The Good Old Days

“I know the armchair’s cozy and all, but c’mon and sit over here so I can hear you better.”

Bobby dragged his backpack over to rest against the table leg before sitting down. When Great-Grandma Holystone heard the chair scoot, she leaned forward and laced her fingers together. He prepared himself for a barrage of elderly niceties. _You’ve certainly grown since I saw you last, you were only this high! What grade are you in now? You play sports, right? Got any plans for college?_

“Well, out with it. What happened? It’s gotta be something pretty big if you willingly set foot in this depressing shithole.”

Bobby blinked rapidly. _Or maybe not._

“Uh, how did you…”

“How did I know you were thinking that? ‘Cause everyone thinks that.” She waved a vague hand at the room. “Honestly. We’re in the middle of New York City and this place is _quiet._ ” 

“You got that right,” Bobby conceded. Great-Grandma Holystone nodded.

“Of course I do. So, back to my first question. What’s up?”

“I’ve got some questions about weird stuff I’ve noticed about our family, and when I tried to ask someone, they said to ask my Great-Grandma Holystone first, and…”

“No, no, I’d prefer it if you didn’t call me that.” She crinkled her nose. “Makes me feel old, and takes too long to say. You can call me Nice, or Grandma Nice if you have to. Think you can manage that?”

He nodded. Her expression didn’t change, and after a second she asked, “Well?” 

With a jolt, he caught on. “Oh, um, yeah.”

She nodded back. “Yep, that’s another thing. If you nod or shake your head I’m not gonna be able to see that. My eyesight’s not what it used to be, and it used to be shit. However,” she continued as an idea struck Bobby and he began to move one of his hands, “I’ve been told I still have an excellent sense for when someone is flipping me off.”

He hastened to reconfigure his hands into a less vulgar expression, and made a show of scratching his chin, just in case. An unsettling thought struck him. 

“Hey, I know this sounds weird but I just gotta make sure.” He paused, and waited for Grandma Nice to nod before continuing. “You can’t read my mind, can you?”

She snorted. “Nah. I’ve just been around a while. You must have run into some real strange ones to be asking that, huh?”

“Oh yeah. This pair of nut-jobs talking about world domination in Beatles costumes were somehow the most normal people I’ve met in the past month.”

She raised her eyebrow. “Sounds to me like you met Isaac and Miria.”

Bobby let out a sigh at the thought of them, then jumped as Nice cackled. 

“Oh you’ve met them, alright. Well, if you’ve gotten yourself into their good graces, your mom’s as good as failed already.” She wiped a gleeful tear from her eye, still chuckling. “Next thing you’ll be telling me you’ve been running around Manhattan with a gang of punks.”

Bobby froze. _How could she have known that? She couldn’t have known that. It was just a lucky guess. She won’t know as long as you can play it off cool._

“C’mon, I’m just joking. Lighten up.”

“Oh, heh, heh, yeah,” Bobby managed. 

In a split second, the laughter vanished from her face.

“Oh no.”

_Shit._

“Don’t tell me.”

“No, it’s not what you –“

“Shit. You’re _leading_ them, aren’t you?”

“If you’d just let me –“

“How many are there?”

“Listen, if my mom finds out –“

“Calm down. I won’t tell your mom,” Grandma Nice sighed, raising her hands in a placating gesture. “Or your dad, for that matter. As long as you promise to do a favor for me. And it’s nothing bad. Just. Tell me.”

“There’s five of us,” he confessed.

A wry half-smile crossed her face. “Well, you’re no Godfather, I’ll give you that. And have you been smart enough to not pick any fights with a real gang?”

“Uh, well, yes and no…” Nice opened her mouth, but Bobby snapped before she could say anything. “No! You know what? That’s not important. That’s not what I came here to talk about. Wouldja just let me talk!?”

She sat back in her chair and dropped her hands in her lap. “Fine. Go ahead. What happened that you really want to talk about?”

_So she acts tough, but as soon as I fight back, she’s got nothing. As long as I keep the upper hand, she’ll talk to me._

“It’s kind of a long story,” he warned, pride coloring his tone. “I made my way through more in a couple of days than a lot of people go through in a lifetime.”

“So get going,” she shot back. “I don’t have all… well, _I_ have all day, but they’ll kick _you_ out at 5, so skip to the important bits.”

“Where to start… You get the news, right?”

Nice answered with a sardonic snap. “No, Bobby. I’m _so_ isolated from the world that I am _entirely_ unaware of what’s happening outside. It’s hard to tell if it’s 1976 or 2005, and they don’t let us- _of course I listen to the news._ ”

“Okay, jeez, fine. So, remember that thing about the two cruise ships that got hijacked and then crashed?” 

She paused for a second. When she spoke again, the edge was gone from her tone. “Is that really what you got yourself into?” 

“Yeah, I was basically right in the middle of everything. It took a lotta guts, but I pretty much saved everyone all on my own.” He puffed out his chest, casually leaning his chair back. 

“Let me guess,” Nice chuckled humorlessly. “It was a lot more of a shitstorm than CNN made it out to be?”

Bobby laughed back. “You don’t even know the half of it. Everything started when…”

“Actually,” She held up a finger, “Gonna stop you real quick. At one point they said there had been explosions going off on one of the boats. I don’t suppose you were behind that?”

“Huh?” The question took a moment to process. The tone of her voice didn’t seem to match what she was talking about. She almost sounded… _hopeful?_ “Uh, no, I didn’t do that. I was there for it, though.” 

“Alright. Just had to check. Go on then, everything started when…?”

Bobby cleared his throat. “Okay, so. Everything started when the gang and I saw this girl sneaking onto one of the lifeboats.”

It was far from the first time he’d told his story. He’d gotten pretty damn good at it too; he knew just the right spots to pause for dramatic tension, which people and events to emphasize, and of course every last second of the standoff with the machine-gun goon to render in glowing detail. And if he was telling it to any normal people, he knew just how to edit out the weirdest bits, so that angry guy from the FBI wouldn’t chase him down. By this point, he could tell it in his sleep. 

Around halfway through, another memory wormed its way to the front of his mind. This bit never made it into the retellings, and it never would. Still, it bothered him. He let his narration run on autopilot as the scene came back to him.

************  
**Two and a half weeks ago  
Aboard the _Entrance_**

He’d managed to find a spot where he couldn’t see any bloodstains. They seemed to be everywhere – painting the deck, pooled around every corner, splattered in too-descriptive arcs across the walls.

In the aftermath of the battle, the group of kids dissolved faster than the blink of an eye. Czeslaw slipped away before anyone noticed, Carnea was whisked away by Angelo while someone else shepherded off those weird cult kids, and Claudia had left with the wounded girl’s stretcher, Charon close on their heels. Even his own gang had split, as benevolent passengers offered their international cell phone plans to help connect estranged family members with survivors. 

And then he was alone. 

He’d spent a few minutes vacillating, trying to decide if he should chase after someone or wait for someone to come back and find him. But every time he was close to making a choice, he caught sight of another splash of red. Each glimpse dragged thoughts to the front of his mind; _Someone might have died there Did the blood start from neck height or did it just splash that high That one kind of looks like someone dragged himself along without a foot No Stop thinking about it Just don’t look at it_

He couldn’t think straight until he got away from all this blood. After a half-hour or so, he found an isolated walkway overlooking the ocean, on the side of the ship facing away from its mirror. He hadn’t told anyone where he was going. There hadn’t really been anyone around to tell. He figured that his gang would find their way back to him at some point, the way they usually did. They’d probably be just about done calling their parents by now.

He sighed. He should do that. He would do that, just not now. He knew he wouldn’t get through ten seconds without someone screaming. He’d probably had enough stress for one day, anyway. 

_They can wait. Serves ‘em right._

Before he could decide on exactly why they deserved to be served right, a bright voice broke into his pondering.

“There you are! Hey, you! Kid!”

He turned, and - Blood. He blinked, and no – Red. Curly red hair, framing a face he’d seen on newsstands and commercial breaks. 

“Who’re you calling a kid?” 

Was out of his mouth before his brain processed exactly who he was talking to. However, Claudia Walken’s winning smile never wavered, and she barreled through her answer before he could even stammer out an apology.

“You, of course. Because you are one. Unless you’re immortal too? I guess it’s possible, but I’m pretty sure you’re not. I’d be able to tell if you were. But that’s beside the point. The point is you.”

“Me? What about m…” 

“You surprised me, risking your life to protect me and my world like that. I won’t let you off of this boat until we’ve had a proper introduction. Otherwise it’ll be an absolute chore if I ever want to find you again.” She thrust out her hand to him for a shake. “My name’s Claudia Walken, just in case you didn’t know, and you’ve met Charon, he’s…”

“Yeah, of course I know who you two are.” Bobby shrugged his hand out of his jacket pocket. Claudia gripped it like a vise, and whipped her wrist up and down with a strength he hadn’t been anticipating.

“Of course,” she grinned. “And you are?” 

“My name’s Bobby,” he hesitated, hoping she’d start talking again. No such luck. “Bobby, uh, Splot.”

Her eyebrows shot up.

“Really? Splot?”

 _Yep, there it is. Even celebrities. Nothing’s funnier, huh?_ “Yeah, I know my last name is stupid, you don’t have to…”

“No, no, that’s not it.” She cut him off with a waving hand and a pensive expression. “My family is friends with some Splots.”

She leaned closer, almost too close, scrutinizing his face. Bobby laughed uncomfortably.

“Well, I, uh, I’m pretty sure my parents and I would remember meeting you, if, uh…”

Eyes still narrowed in thought, she rocked backwards on her heels. “Yes, you would, wouldn’t you,” she murmured. 

Just then, a chime sounded. Claudia reached into her pocket ( _Do dresses have pockets? I didn’t think dresses had pockets_ ) and pulled out a cell phone. Her hands tensed as she read the message. Without warning, she turned on her heel and strode away, tossing back over her shoulder,

“Goodbye, Bobby Splot. We’ll meet again.”

Once again, Bobby was alone.

********* 

“And then after it was all over, Claudia Walken (you know, the movie star) personally thanked me for saving her life, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I got a part in her next film. And, yeah, that’s about it.”

It was basically all true. He just might have tweaked some of the details that would definitely land him in hot water if they made their way to the police or something. At first he had been cautious about his exaggerations, but Grandma Nice hadn’t confronted him on his story. In fact, she’d kept her silence the whole time, her face totally unreadable. 

As her silence stretched into seconds, Bobby tried to gauge her response.

_She’s probably not gonna freak out and yell at me, she would have done that already if she was. And she doesn’t seem that bothered, so the shock-and-awe reaction is out too. Doesn’t seem the type to just believe me, though, so she’ll probably start with a cross-examination. Yeah, just like the guys; “What, you really expect me to believe…”_

“So. That’s where you were.”

_Relief? Sadness? Exhaustion?_

This reaction was a first. He let his chair fall back down onto four legs, his confidence ebbing. Grandma Nice’s gaze was directed somewhere above him. As she spoke, she absently ran a thumb over a burn scar on her wrist.

“It took ‘em a few days to remember to call me. Too busy dealing with other stuff, I guess, because when your mom did give me a call, she stayed on the line just long enough to mention that they found you and you were generally okay. Couldn’t get a single detail out of her, and she hung up real quick.” 

Bobby’s lip curled at the familiarity. He drew in a breath to commiserate, but she continued, the bitter edge back in her voice. “You’d almost think there was something she didn’t want me to know. And, well, now I think I see why.”

“Alright, that’s IT!” 

With a shout, Bobby shot up from the table, sending his chair skittering backwards. Grandma Nice gasped in surprise at the sudden noise. 

“THAT, right there! Why the hell won’t anyone tell me ANYTHING? What didn’t Mom want you to know? What doesn’t she want me to know? What does it have to do with tattoos and people who don’t die and, oh yeah!” A note of hysteria crept into his words. “Why didn’t anyone tell me the ACTUAL FUCKING REASON not to cross the Martillos? Why do movie stars and weirdos off the street and FUCKING MONSTERS know something about this fucking family that I DON’T?!”

Grandma Nice’s eye narrowed. As Bobby finished his tirade, she rose from her seat. 

“Are you done?” 

Bobby almost flinched at the chill in her voice. Still, he snapped back a response.

“I won’t be done until someone tells me what I wanna know.”

She nodded in acknowledgement, then began to pace in front of the table. Her gait was slow and deliberate, but steady, despite her age. He watched her stalk past through narrowed eyes. She didn’t speak until she had passed by Bobby twice. 

“Before I waste any energy answering you, you’re going to have to answer some of my questions first.”

“Wait, why do…”

“What did I do for a living?” Grandma Nice cut through his protest. 

“What?”

“You heard me. Unless you’ve been listening to music too loud. I’d appreciate it if you avoided going deaf too early, otherwise talking to you is gonna get tricky for me.”

“Uh… you were a chemist, weren’t you?” Bobby grumbled. With no indication of whether he was right or wrong, she continued.

“What’s your connection to the Martillos?”

He muttered something under his breath. Grandma Nice fixed him with a sightless glare, and soon he mumbled, “…They hired me.”

“Well, you’ve got to be telling the truth. Don’t see why you’d lie about doing something that stupid.”

“Hey, I’ve got a plan…”

“Quiet. You asked your questions, and I’m asking mine. What are you hoping to achieve?”

“Like, for a job?”

“With your gang. What do you want to gain?”

Bobby faltered. Relentless, his great-grandmother pressed on. 

“Do you want in for the money?”

“No!” 

“Hoping you’ll get famous?”

“No, no…”

“Want people to be afraid of you?”

“I – no, I…”

“Grabbing for power?”

“It’s not…”

“Trying to prove yourself to someone?”

“I don’t really…”

“Trying to prove yourself to _yourse-_ ”

“I DON’T KNOW!” 

Grandma Nice stopped pacing as the silence that followed Bobby’s shout swelled. A million follow-ups and justifications crowded his mind, but he couldn’t focus on anything aside from the frustration smoldering behind his eyes. He settled for glaring daggers at the table. When no clarification came, Grandma Nice sighed.

“Well, if that’s your answer, then that’s your answer.” She made her way back to her seat and sat down with a huff. “That’s all the questions I have for you.”

 _Finally._ Bobby took his seat again, waiting for her to start talking. There was a slightly distant look to her eye. She was probably lost deep in memories, maybe trying to figure out exactly where to start. 

Seconds ticked past. Not a word. Not even a sound. 

Maybe she needed a nudge. He tapped a finger against the table.

“And?”

“No.”

Her response was so prompt that Bobby almost didn’t catch it.

“Wait, what?”

“I said no. As in, no, I’m not going to answer your questions.”

“What? Why not?” he spluttered. 

“The way you are right now, you’re not worth the time it would take. I’m not finished.” Nice cut off Bobby’s inevitable protest, then continued. “You’re just another angry kid. You have nothing to fight for and nothing to fight against, so that means you’re fighting just for the sake of seeing someone else get hurt. You think you’re hot stuff because you call your buddies a gang and order ‘em around. Do you really think you’re gonna join up with a real gang and they’ll somehow see your potential and promote some kid fresh out of middle school? Please. They’ll eat you alive.

“So, no. I’m not going to tell you what you want to hear. If I tell you anything now, you’ll ignore the important parts and just run off and try to copy what we did. And if that happens you’ll end up dead. In fact, I’d give you five days. Tops. And I don’t much care to get another phone call from my grandson in tears over you.”

An image flashed across Bobby’s mind – a well-creased piece of notebook paper. He shoved the thought away and clenched his fists. 

“What you did? What the fuck do you mean, _what you did?_ I’ve got no fucking clue what you’re talking about! And… and you know what?” Bobby laughed, derision cutting into his words. “You know what? I bet you don’t know either! I bet your brain’s turned to fucking Jell-O! I bet you couldn’t even remember what you had for breakfast this morning! And you know what else?” He shot as he hoisted up his backpack, “I’m done. I’m not gonna waste another second of my life in this depressing shithole. I’ll figure everything out on my own.”

With that, he strode towards the door. Nice didn’t move to stop him, nor did she say a word, until just as he reached for the door handle.

“Fine. If you never want to learn how your great-grandfather and I ran a gang of fifty-odd kids for a solid decade, butted heads with no less than five criminal organizations, and lost fewer of our folks than you can count on your fingers, then you don’t ever have to come back.”

Bobby froze in his tracks, hand hovering above the door handle, as he tried to process the meaning of what his great-grandmother had just said. She took the advantage his silence provided, and kept talking.

“I told you I wouldn’t tell you a thing the way you are now. If you think you can’t change…” She faltered, and took a shaky breath before she continued, “then you never have to see me again. But if you can figure out how to prove to me that you’re worth the risk of teaching you, then just come back. Preferably on a Tuesday or Thursday. There’s a lot of folks you’ll need to meet. Might as well start with the ones who come by most often, and we can also talk about that favor you owe me.”

_Shove open the door and leave No Stay and talk No Say something Think of something smart to say No Just leave without a word No Stay No Leave No No No_

He grabbed the door handle and turned it, but made no move to open the door. On hearing the latch click, Nice made one more point.

“Oh, and by the way, don’t worry about the nurses bothering you on the way out. I’ve been here long enough. They know my visitors tend to get loud. And trust me, the last thing they’re worried about is _you_ blowing up at _me._ ”

Bobby yanked the door open and stormed out. The last thing he said before the door swung shut was a dark mutter about being sick of cryptic bullshit, just loud enough for his great-grandmother to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After this chapter, I'm going to have to put this project aside until I've finished the novels. I can't very well write about Nice's escapades (or write about her refusing to talk about them) until I know what her escapades from 1935 are.  
> As always, thanks for reading, and let me know what you think in the comments!

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first chapter of my first (intentionally) multi-chapter project. I'm really excited to explore the world and characters that I'm building for this fic, so let me know what you think!


End file.
